Finally
by Effin4
Summary: John is not taking Sherlock's death to well, and it doesn't get any better when Sherlock returns. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_I got really bored on camping, and got this more or less depressing idea. I don't think it will get any more lighter._

* * *

Finally. Finally could he be free of the pain. Life after Sherlock's death had been nothing but a sad, depressing joke. He'd been sitting in 221B Baker Street in his usual armchair day in and day out, silent-treating everyone that had come to visit him; Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft and even Molly. He hated them visiting. They sat there, trying to say something that would help him, with pity written all over their sad faces. Molly had started crying. She'd put her arms around him, and whispered 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry' repeatedly, but he hadn't moved. Sometimes, when he sat staring at Sherlock's empty chair long enough, he appeared before him.

"Get yourself together, John! You're wasting your life!" was mostly what he said. Those words didn't offer him any comfort at all. He wish he could imagine Sherlock being here, holding around him like he wanted him to, but he only appeared when John didn't want him there, and never said anything helping at all. Not even in his sleep could he imagine Sherlock being there for real, only repeating nightmares of the fall. So he'd stopped sleeping. He stayed awake for days, until he finally crashed down, sleeping a cold, empty sleep, more of an unconsciousness than an actual rest. When John was at the lowest of low, he blamed himself. He should've told Sherlock how he felt. The two times he'd been at his thumb stone, he'd cried, whispering the words he so desperately wished he'd said when Sherlock was alive. It didn't help. Sherlock was gone, he would never know how John felt and his life no longer had a meaning.

Which was why he now sat on the bathroom floor, his gun in his hand, pointing it at his temple. If he just pulled the trigger, he could meet Sherlock again, and tell him all the things he never said. For the first time since the day his detective jumped, he smiled a tiny smile. Maybe, if there was such a thing, he could join the detective solving crimes in heaven. Or hell. He was just about to pull the trigger, when the door to the bathroom suddenly flew up. A familiar figure stormed in, and almost made John drop the gun, gazing at the person in front of him.

"Don't do it, John!" John shook his head. This was really bad. Now he'd started imagining Sherlock coming to rescue him. This figure was nothing to what he usually saw; this man was snow-white, with red eyes and a desperate look in his eyes.

"You're not real," John said, more to himself than to the person in front of him.

"I'm just imagining things again."

The last colours of Sherlock's face disappeared with those words. He reached out his arms, unsure what to do.

"No. John, put down the gun. I'm real, I promise. Put down the gun."

Something clicked inside of John. It was bad enough he had to live without his best friend, but now he also was hallucinating. It just made the pain worse. It ached through his whole body, driving him crazy.

"You are NOT REAL," he screamed, pointing the gun at Sherlock instead, wanting to prove he was right. It wasn't before the bullet hit his former flatmate, and Sherlock fell to the floor, John realized what he'd done. The shot had gone through Sherlock's shoulder, and he bled seriously already. How could this happen to him? Was Sherlock alive? It was too much. The gun fell out of his hands, and he passed out, welcoming the surrounding blackness.

* * *

_Apologizing for short chapter, but I figured it was a good place to end it._

_Tell me what you think! _


	2. Chapter 2

_So, here we go!_

* * *

John woke up, not caring to open his eyes. He could tell from the smell that he was in hospital. He made a tiny gap with his eyelids and looked through it. Hospital, yes. Even with the small view he got from his tiny gap, all the white made his head ache, and he closed his eyes again. Something moved beside him, and a low, nervous voice was heard.

"John?" The voice was so familiar, and yet unknown. He'd never heard that particular voice so tiny, so nervous and so desperate.

'Oh bloody hell, it's still there,' he thought to himself, wishing he could press a painkiller button, but realized there was no such thing connected to him.

"John, it's me. It really is. I'm so indescribable sorry." John dared to open his eyes. On the left side of the bed sat a tall, dark man. He was as pale as when John'd seen him in the bathroom, and his eyes even more red. At a closer look, he was also much skinnier than John'd ever seen him. He wanted to scream. It hurt so much, looking at something that couldn't be real.

He stretched out an arm, trying to touch him. Sherlock laid willingly his hand under his, and John shivered when he felt the touch. He snapped his hand back like he'd gotten burned.

"John…" Sherlock started, his eyes filling up with tears, but John didn't see it. He'd closed his eyes, thinking that this was a dream, or death.

"Look at me, John. Please, just look at me. I'm real. I never died. I faked my death to keep you safe. John… I love you." The words came stuttering out, filled with pain and sorrow, and John smiled to himself. If this was death, he could live with it.

"LOOK AT ME, JOHN!" The voice wasn't low anymore. It was desperate and high, and John came to his senses with a shock. He sat up, turning towards the figure beside him. Then he gaped.

"Sherlock…" the name was barely hearable, a trying whisper, a wish. Then the voice raised and he got out of bed.

"Sherlock! You made me believe you were…" he didn't finish the sentence. He was angry beyond what he'd thought was possible. He threw himself at the person in the chair, hitting all he had. All the pain, anger and abandonment he had built up inside since Sherlock jumped, flew out of his fists. He hit until he heard a low squeak of pain coming from the person below him, and he realized what he'd done. He got up, staring in disbelief at the man on the floor. He had a bandage on his shoulder, and his lips were cracked. His left eye was swollen and fast turning blue, blood ran from his nose. Despite that, Sherlock hadn't made a move to defend himself.

John took a few steps back, speechless over what he'd just done.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

" It's nothing to apologize for," Sherlock croaked. "I deserved it. John… I love you. Do you hear me?" Then he closed his eyes, unconscious.

* * *

_Okay, I admit it. This is only because of my need for angst. I also have to say the chapters probably won't be longer than this. _


End file.
